


One Wave Short of a Shipwreck

by bulfinch



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Love Confessions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 13:15:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28654092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bulfinch/pseuds/bulfinch
Summary: Insanity was not such a far thing from imagination. And Crowley had always been good at that. So if he was a little mad, a little unhinged and reckless, he was only wearing a colour that suited him...Nothing about Crowley was more hopeless, though, more rash and heedless than his heart, running blindly after Aziraphale at a word, a moments notice, the slightest glance.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Kudos: 35





	One Wave Short of a Shipwreck

Insanity was not such a far thing from imagination. And Crowley had always been good at that. So if he was a little mad, a little unhinged and reckless, he was only wearing a colour that suited him.

The pain of God’s rejection had mellowed. Scarred into a mad and dangerous kind of hurt. And Crowley wore it like a cloak of bravado. What was Falling to one who would cast himself off cliffs? 

He always knew where the line was, where the threshold of oblivion lay. Always knew when to skitter back and breathe, breathe, breathe. 

Nothing about Crowley was more hopeless, though, more rash and heedless than his heart, running blindly after Aziraphale at a word, a moments notice, the slightest glance. 

He learned to revel in loving Aziraphale. Learned a deranged joy in the screaming agony of being near enough to touch. Wanting to be burnt by the sun coming off his wings.  
  
But sometimes Aziraphale would look back at him, full of an ancient longing. Hunger and grief written plainly in the curves and planes of his face. And Crowley could not bear to see his own truth in the angel’s gaze. Could not bear to know that, perhaps, if things were different, it could have been. 

If onlys were too near the tipping point for him. 

Eventually, the End came. And went. And they had slipped sideways out of reach. 

And now they were here. 

It was quiet, the light fading with the sun. A demon and an angel sat amongst a fortress of books, cocooned safely in the twilight. One moment slid into another and, unexpectedly, Crowley found himself in the calm after the giddiness of escape, when things became too tender and too real and too frank. 

He drained his glass. 

“I should go.” 

But then Aziraphale reached for him. Stopped. Pulled back. Rubbed a shaking hand across his furrowed brow. And suddenly he was stammering out apologies, pouring out long-unsaid things. Breaking beautifully with relief. 

“I love you,” he sighed, seeming so threadbare that Crowley couldn’t stand not to touch him. “I love you.” 

Aziraphale looked at him then, more mad and dangerous than Crowley had ever been, leaping into the impossible. Wondering if Crowley would be mad enough to leap too. 

But insanity was not so far from trust. And, for Aziraphale, Crowley had always been good at that. 

Crowley, finally, tipped headlong over the edge. He let their lips and fingers and tangled limbs lead them into their own glorious madness. Burnt, happily, by love. 

Caught in the wide blue ache of Aziraphale’s adoration, Crowley had nothing but his skin to hide behind. 


End file.
